Forevermore
by we're all squares here
Summary: There is a place where there is nothing- yet there is everything. Zora Lancaster has been there. And you, whether you like it or not, have entered her world. As told through a series of stories, diary entries, dialogue, and who knows what. AU.
1. Prologue

**Wow… My first multi-chap. -.-" You know how horrible I am with these, right? Try not to get involved with the plot too much. I'll probably never update.**

**Big thank you to Joyce, AKA Cascading Rainbows, for being the best beta ever and for making this crappy prologue… less crappier.**

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**Forevermore  
Prologue  
by Audreacity**

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Everyone was meant to die. That was that. There was no way to question it. I suggest to just live with it

Death is inevitable. Avoiding it is foolish. Yet, why do so many think that they can get away with trying to delay it? It's only natural—right? And I know, for a sure fact, that I am only telling the truth.

I have no fear of it. Some say that it's only because I am so ignorant as to not believe in it. Little Zora, in her stupid, pointless comedy. She's not afraid of death because she' too small and stupid to know about anything. I find this offensive. My genius is too much for them to handle.

I was smart enough to realize that it was foolish to run from death; yet, I come to regret snapping at people who live in constant fear of it. Maybe—maybe I was wrong. I didn't expect it to get to me that quickly.

Before I even said goodbye.

I suppose I'm a hypocrite now. Yeah, that's the main thing, though, right? That it was wrong for me to think that death was only natural, was I wrong there, too? But no. I don't regret anything. Zora Lancaster regrets nothing. It just caught me off guard—it was so sudden. I can tell you one thing honestly- I wasn't expecting it.

Maybe that hobo I saw on the street was right. I could call him a psychic without feeling stupid or deranged... or both. The end was near. At least, it was for me.

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"They that love beyond the World, cannot be separated by it. Death cannot kill, what never dies. Nor can spirits ever be divided that love and live in the same divine principle; the root and record of their friendship. If absence be not death, neither is theirs. Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas; they live in one another still. For they must needs be present, that love and live in that which is omnipresent. In this divine glass, they see face to face; and their converse is free, as well as pure. This is the comfort of friends, that though they may be said to die, yet their friendship and society are, in the best sense, ever present, because immortal."

William Penn;_ Fruits of Solitude_

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**Review?**

**You've read. Now, I fully expect you to review. Reviews are wanted, criticism is appreciated, and flames will be accepted. Thank you.**


	2. Me, Myself, and My Therapist

**You know, the prologue was a big shock for me. I didn't think so many people would respond to it in such a nice way. Well, I'd like to starts off with a warning. This chapter (and many more chapters) mentions Heaven, hell, and Limbo. If you're uncomfortable with that, please turn around.**

**Also, I'd like to mention that this takes place in the future. Like, Zora's twenty or something.**

**Another big thank you to Joyce for beta-ing this. Thank you twinsie! :)**

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Forevermore  
Chapter One: Me, Myself, and My Therapist  
or The(rapist)  
by Audreacity

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Forty-one and a half days ago, I, Zora Lancaster, said goodbye for the last time. I was sane then. Or at least, I thought I was. Daily, they had me sent to a therapist.

Only for the poor, unfortunate soul to dub me as insane.

Over and over again.

It became repetitive. So much that I already knew what was going to happen. And it has become more like a chore than a 'friendly visit'. And besides, how could a visit to hell be friendly? And, believe me, hell is so much more exciting than going to a therapist.

It wasn't my fault. I swear, it wasn't. Rather, it was their fault. Their fault for encouraging my beliefs and ideas. It was their fault for always having my back. And it was their fault for abandoning me in the middle of it all.

I blame them for this. But no one is going to believe me. No one.

Especially not them. Definitely, absolutely, not them. There's always been a fine line between me and them. But now, ever since the incident, the line grew bolder. And all the people I can trust- Sonny, my own family, Tawni, Holloway, the lot of them- turned against me saying that "It's alright, Zora. I believe you," but not meaning a word of it.

I used to be Zora Lancaster, the genius comedian. But when people look at me now, all they see is a crazy girl with crazy ideas. No one ever thinks twice about me. But that's okay. I don't need them. They don't need me.

I wonder whether or not you could die of boredom. Probably not- I'd already be dead if that was the case. I suppose endless monotony came with the whole crazy package. I should know, and I do.

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Some days, I begin to doubt my sanity, just like all the others I came to know. But it's all right. I knew sanity was one thing I didn't have a whole lot of.

Now, I have to stop you. See, most of my therapists are already insane because of me. Filing lawsuits here and there. They're a sad bunch. But I think I can trust you. Then again, I've been told that I never did have the best judgment…

Today, well, to tell you the truth, today wasn't worth getting up in the morning. It was like a replay of every day in my life. The therapist (or the occasional doctor) blabbers on about how I'm doing or what I'm thinking, he (or she) then deems me crazy or insane (though I don't see the difference between the two accusations…), and then they leave. Oh, wait. I forgot the part where they, or rather, my parents- but that's such a derogative term (I refuse to be associated with people who don't believe in me), must pay millions for this guy. Whatever. I get a disability check every month for being crazy.

Whoopee.

Every month, they send me to this therapist- Doctor Stewart. He was supposedly the best therapist in the world, known to rehabilitate crazed cannibals and psychopath murderers.

I think he hates me. I mean, really, really hates me. Because Doctor Stewart hasn't failed. Not once. Except for me. Funny. I'm always the exception.

Today, he started the meeting with, "Now, can you tell me what's wrong?" He says it like he's talking to a kindergartener for the tenth time. That pathetic, impatient, tired voice that makes me feel like I was little Zora, star of So Random! again. It was demeaning, considering that I'm nineteen now, to have the public, along with the rapist over here, to remember me either as little Zora or crazy psycho keep-your-kids-away Zora.

And, the minute he begins with that annoying tone, I'd just lean back, get comfortable on the recliner and respond, "No, Doc. You're the therapist, not me. Aren't you supposed to tell me what's wrong?"

Then he'd sigh. That frustrated I'm-not-here-to-play-Zora sigh. Personally, I think it's sad, that he has to spend his lonely days trying to cure the incurable. But whatever.

It's his job to fix me, but he never does.

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"Did you have any dreams last night?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What were those dreams?"

So then I'd tell him what I dreamt of. It was mostly a lie. Who can sleep with all the noise going around? People were always whispering about me, the usual—I could usually deal with it. Only now, it's gotten worse. Like, screaming, shouting, and then glaring kind of worse.

Maybe the only reason my parents stayed together was because they didn't want me to become some psychopath... Hey, maybe I should tell Dr. Stewart about that.

We would play this game until he'd send me out. I think that he's beginning to understand me a little. I mean, first time I got here, he kicked me out within an hour. It still brings me great joy to watch him flip out. It makes me feel like Little Zora again.

"You dreamt of dancing with the Empire State Building?" he asks, incredulously. He has this wow-she-must-be-crazy look on his face. I wonder if I really said that. I could have sworn I said something about eating soup.

I nod numbly, staring out the window. I wonder whether or not I can pass the craziness off as ADHD.

Dr. Stewart shakes his head and, surprisingly, starts chuckling. "You're crazy. That's it, you are." And he looks at me, smiling. Wondering how in the world the meeting is going to go on from there.

I can't help but smile too. Because, no matter how much we despise each other, I've gotten fond of him. And I, for one, hope the feeling is mutual.

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Sometimes (most of the time), Doctor Stewart and I don't get along. Those times, it's like walking on a thin piece of wood over shark infested waters. No matter how much we grow fond of each other, we'll never be friends.

He interrupts my thoughts, waving his hands in front of my face like a lunatic. It's expected; I do nothing but blink. He says slowly, "Ms. Lancaster? Are you alright?" He says it in that worried, yet anxious, tone that most people use with me.

I could feel heaps of rude and ornery come up my thought, just like bile. They're fighting, pounding against my mouth to let them out. But I keep my mouth shut because I promised myself that I would behave.

"I'm fine," I finally say, through gritted teeth, because they were all I had to keep the rude comments from piling out. Like a flash, I knew today was going to drag on and on.

"Ms. Lancaster, can you please focus your attention at me, instead of whatever it is that you're looking at?" he pleads, frustrated that I am the one client he can't cure.

I force the rudeness down again, and shake my head once. "No, sir," I say though my teeth again.

"Ms. Lancaster! I'm beginning to think that you don't even want to be cured!" He yells at me this time, not even the slightest bit worried that his other patients, all completely crazy this time- not just misunderstood like me, are within hearing distance.

And worse off, he yells it in an I-am-mightier-than-thou-and-thou-shall-do-what-I-say kind of voice.

I glare at him through narrowed eyes. I don't know what he saw in those eyes, but I heard him swallow deeply. "My name is Zora. If you want to talk to a 'Ms. Lancaster', you have my permission to see my mother. Though I hardly doubt she'd enjoy company with the likes of _you_."

"Zora, this is no time for games. I have much better things to do than put up with your insolent, bratty, personality," he says, fed up.

"Yes, sir." I said again, grinding my teeth down in frustration.

I could feel his pride growing larger and larger. And he's probably thinking '_Oh, I'm the best therapist in the world, yadda yadda yadda, I dragged a civilized response out of Zora! Yay!_'

These are the times I wished I could just pound him on the head and get away with it. But I can't. So I have to settle with rude remarks, said at the right time for added annoyance, and elaborate pranks. My favorite was when I made his book shelf fall and he cried like a baby when his precious books with their think, leather spines fell, papers flying here and there and everywhere. It's nice to know that, even if I'm _not _Little Zora anymore, I can always come close.

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"Doctor Stewart?" I called out from my chair, not bothering to look at him while talking. Usually, I'd never talk to him. I'd just space out and let him talk about the asylum or however mentally challenged I am. With, you know, the occasional, "Yeah, uh-huh. Whatever you say."

I could tell he was shocked. He, too, noticed that I had never actually said his name before. That I'd usually never talk to him. For once, I think he was insecure about talking to me. "Y-Yes, Zora? What is it?"

"Can I tell you something?"

"Anything."

"I'm going to be honest here: I don't think you'll believe me."

"I am a therapist. I will listen."

I could tell he was getting eager. Finally, he has made a breakthrough. Zora Lancaster finally talks. Amazing.

"I'm not crazy. Really, I'm not." I could see him rolling his eyes, muttering something like '_Yeah right._' But just as long as someone is willing to hear me out, I'm good. "A few years ago, I died. I'm sure you know about that, right?" Everyone knows the tragic story. Poor Zora died. Boohoo. Then, after that, they didn't care anymore.

"Y-Yes. You did die. But I'm not exactly sure-"

"I died. People were about to cut off the life machine after three weeks. Then, I came back to life."

He nodded some more.

"Do you know why I died?"

That was the shocker part. Some people knew why I died. Some didn't. Others said my soul was abducted by aliens. Taken to a weird planet and experimented on. The worst of the rumors was that I committed suicide, missed my heart, then miraculously came alive. Funny, no one cares for the truth. No one cared whether or not they had evidence to support their lies. They wanted to destroy Zora Lancaster. And destroy her, they had.

I waited for him to answer. Dr. Stewart looked nervous- as if he was about to cry. He whispers, "F-Fire. You d-died in a fire," so softly it was like he never said it. This will not do. I had not expected this from him- him of all people. If I was Little Zora, I would have left- no words spoken, just leave his office, and never look back. But I'm not Little Zora anymore. I'm more mature than I was before. So I just nod, slowly, but surely, letting him know that he was one of the very few that knew about the true cause of my death. I nod for him to continue.

"S-Someone put y-your c-car on f-fire. Y-You were th-the only one i-inside it."

I stand up, knowing that, if he goes on, I couldn't take it. I'd never been emotional, not exactly. But my death is my issue. I nod once more, a general 'goodbye' I always give him. Before I could even make two steps, he stops me.

This time, he uses his answer-me-now-I'm-not-joking tone. "Zora, what happened?"

And I could do nothing but answer him.

"Exactly two years, three months, five days, and four hours ago, I died from first degree murder, the culprit is still unknown, that damned bastard. I didn't burn down and die- I suffocated from the smoke. I was lucky to have suffered only that. When I died, I experienced hell, Heaven, and Limbo."

He stares at me, with that do-you-think-I'm-an-idiot look, but keeps silent. I knew he didn't believe me, but, whether he liked it or not, he has entered my world.

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**Special thank you's to:**

ungraceful, Cascading Rainbows, Flame Minion, kfodom, BlackAmethyst123, and the anonymous LaughingInvisibleShadow

**for reviewing.**

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**You've read. Now, I fully expect you to review. Reviews are wanted, criticism is appreciated, and flames will be accepted. Thank you.**


	3. Some Diary Crap You Don't Want To Read

**Let's give a hand to Cascading Rainbows, Joyce, my wonderful beta.**

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**Explanations:**

**One: I was too damn lazy to write a whole chapter.  
****Two: Zora has a pink room. She **_**must **_**have a diary.****  
Three: Joyce has a life. I will not force her to beta, twenty-four/seven.  
****Four: Meh. I was bored.**

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Day 1 - 12:25 AM  
Monday, November 8, 2010

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Dr. Stewart told me that he could cure me faster if I kept my thoughts and ideas in this journal. I told him that if he expects me to hand over my personal thoughts, he must be crazy. And that if he actually read through this, he'd become very disturbed. He then laughed and shook it off, handing me this dinky journal. (Well, I'll have to admit. This journal is kinda fancy.)

I must not be feeling well, because I'm actually writing. I feel like one of those prissy girls that go home after a perfect day and begin to scrawl 'Dear Diary,' with little hearts on their I's. Which is weird, since I'm supposed to be older- a nineteen-year-old.

I did something extremely stupid yesterday. (More stupid than the time I crossed over to the dark side and actually _liked _someone from Mackenzie Falls.) Like, why-in-the-world-would-you-do-something-as-completely-idiotic-as-that kind of stupid.

I told.

I told Dr. Stewart everything. From the accident to the afterlife and... Well that's basically the whole story. Right now, I wish I was still the genius I was so I can make a time machine and never have told him. I mean, he's even feeling sorry for me. Great. Just my luck.

I didn't go to today's session. This is pretty bad, since I've only missed around zero sessions before this one. Now Dr. Stalker (I mean, Stewart) keeps calling me! Personal privacy, please!

He left me around twelve voicemails, each saying about the same thing: "Zora... please. Answer the phone." I only made the mistake of answering the phone once.

"Yello?" I answered the phone on the third ring, thinking it was either my mother or my father. (I should have known better, since they never call me; but I have a good excuse for not thinking: I've been listening to Justin Bieber on the radio. Talk about torture.)

"Zora!" That voice sounded all too familiar. It's very rude to just hang up on people, but I really didn't want to talk to him.

"I'm sorry, but my parents told me not to answer to strangers. Goodbye."

So I hung up. I sounded very childish, but I'd much rather retreat to my pink and girly room than face the real world.

Damn. Now I really sound like a priss.

Anyways, Sonny came by. For the first time in forever. I think my mother set her up for this, because she was all sweet and kind... And without Chad. I swear, those two are connected at the hip.

"Hey, Zora. How's life?" she asked. I looked at her kind of weird and I guess she took it into offense. It's not like I meant to hurt her feelings or anything. Again, I'm so glad she wasn't with Chad. He's 'effing protective. Like... a weak Edweird Cullen.

"Since when did you care?"

Now that I think of it, I'm kinda bitter. Like a mean, hate-your-life kind of bitter.

…

…

HOLY CRAP! I'M TURNING INTO MS. BITTERMAN!

Kill. Me. Now.

-Zora

PS: Dr. Stewart (or anyone for the matter, even _you_), if you're reading this, expect to die... now.

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**Thanks to:**

unGRACEful | T-Kiwi02 | kfodom | BlackAmethyst123

**for reviewing.**

* * *

**You've read. Now, I fully expect you to review. Reviews are wanted, criticism is appreciated, and flames will be accepted. Thank you.**


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